Krenzik's War Part 1
by TheManipulator
Summary: Jay Krenzik is a mechanic aboard the freighter Lady of Libron II. In the wake of the Cylon attack, he must adjust to a new world where knuckledraggers can become saviors, and ordinary men and women can gain powerwhether they want it or not. In this first


Title: Krenzik's War

Author: Manipulator

Word count: 1929

Rating: (T)

Spoilers:starts with "33" and will continue onward

Disclaimer: BSG is property of NBC/Universal

Notes: This is part of a shared world started by ViperChickKaliyla and MRushgdi, on the Ragnar Anchorage and Hangardeck 5 message boards, telling the story of another civilian and his compatriots in the RTF. In this case, Jay Krenzik, a mechanic aboard the small freighter "Lady of Libron II."

Lady of Libron II

New Castle Freight, Inc.

Goldstar Class Heavy Freighter

Libron Reg. #AFM-9944-03A

Flight Crew: Captain Brad Stengler

XO Milt Jeffers

Navigation Officer Linda Moore

Communication Officer Steve Mitchell

Maintence: Foreman James Caffrey

Hyperdrive Technician: Adam Mangan

Mechanics: Jay Krenzik

Marty Samuels

Nick Sorg

Ed Coursen

Welder: Toby Dempsey

Shipping: Clerk Mike Briars

Fork lift operators: Bobby Kessey

Dan Fitch

Medical: Nurse Joe Pinklon

Cafeteria: Lina Hoffer

Neil Mentz

It's always something.

I always wondered if the company made things difficult just to keep us busy, make sure they could squeeze every last pound of flesh out of us, in the name of maximum efficiency. They had nothing on the Cylons.

I've been a mechanic on the New Castle Shipping Freighter Lady of Libron II for six years. It isn't a bad job, really. A bad back and nagging injuries ended my obscure and thankless college pyramid career, and I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I heard the pay was good, and I'd get to see the other colonies, marvel at the beauty of the stars and nebulae and the wonders of the Gods in deep space--on my breaks, that is.

I think I should tell you now, that I've always had a knack for invoking irony. I was seeing the wonders of deep space, alright, way deep. And if we didn't get the little bars on the FTL console to turn green, it would be the last any of us would ever see.

I was surprised our little FTL didn't go on the blink sooner. A short-range freighter wasn't designed to jump more than once or twice in a day, let alone 228 times, each jump 33 minutes apart.

Mangan, our FTL tech stared at the console, tapped in codes and protocols on the keyboard, with his usual patience, but in his eyes you could see the strain, frustration, and the dark circles of exhaustion.

He muttered under his breath, then slid his card into the maglock on the circuit panel.

I peered over his shoulder, only vaguely understanding the code, and stats onscreen. The only reason I was even back here with him, and not up front maintaining the engines, was that I had started the company FTL certification course three weeks ago. Caffery, the foreman, was the only other FTL-certified hand down below, and he was keeping the rest of the knuckledraggers on point.

"Krenzik," Mangan told me. "Go back to the shop. I need a new diagnostic card."

I ran up the ladder, almost forgetting to slide my badge in the reader to open the hatch at the top. I'd forgotten how hot the engine room above was, but that's where I spent most of my workdays. I'd forgotten a lot of other things too, in the last few days. My mother, my friends, everyone I ever knew, beyond the other 15 souls on this old tub, were dead and gone. And that was just fine. Keep it nice and simple. Keep the old girl running, stay alive, and hope we can jump out while Galactica holds off the cylons. We can't mourn if we're with the dead.

Our foreman, the alpha dog of our pack, Caffery looked up at me from a tech manual. He's a big, dark skinned man, who usually looked younger than the salt-and-pepper in his close-cropped hair suggested. His sweat-soaked work shirt was covered with grease and coolant stains, and made him resemble a medic performing emergency surgery on a big, surly, very ill patient.

"What's up, Jay?"

"Mangan needs a diagnostic card--"

"Take a motherboard and a C-chipset, too. If the brain's going, the rest can't be far behind."

The other deck monkeys were patching the cooling lines. The engines weren't much of a problem at this point. The cooling system, though was still being pushed beyond it's limits. Sparks and solder smoke twisted in the air under the stark acetelyne lights. The old girl would get us there, but we had to sweet talk her, make her feel special, as Caffery put it. Sort of like giving your woman a foot massage when she's in a bad mood.

The bell chimed on the intercom.

"9 minutes," the XO, Jeffers droned through the crackle, making the time sound like a personal insult. He could even make "good morning" sound that way.

A forklift sat elevated on a jack, it's front wheels off. I was dreading bleeding the brake lines to find a clog, last week, hoping I could get out of it. Funny how your wishes come true in the worst way. I skimmed the labels along the parts wall, found the bins with the diagnostic cards in their neat foil wrappers, then the motherboards, and finally, after burning a minute skimming the barcodes and serial numbers, found a C-chip.

I pounded back to the FTL, slid down the ladder. The intercom chimed again: 6 minutes.

A cigarette dangled from Mangan's lip, sweat ran in thick rivulets down his lean face, as he ripped out the old d-card, tossing it to the floor, and slid the new one into place. He ran the check again, the lights were still red across the board, but this time, "CPU Error" flashed on the screen.

"Frak! Krenzik I need--"

I just handed him the foil wrapped motherboard. He paused for a breath, expressionless, then opened it up, and shut down the stardrive system core.

"If we make it, " he continued, as the diagnostic screen, flickered, went black. "Next round's on me."

Four minutes. The motherboard was in place, I squatted next to him, replacing all the cards in their slots, as he fastened all the wires back in place. Time to reboot.

The screen flickered, came to life. The cpu found, and recognized the new card, the new motherboard. Mangan pulled the cordless from his hip, gave Jeffers the green light. The intercom: Linda Moore, the nav officer gave the word: Prepare for jump. Two minutes.

"Get back up to Caffrey. I betcha lines still need patchin'" he said, as he lit a fresh smoke. "If the cylons don't get us, this tub will."

Thirty seconds.

Toby, our welder, sat atop the main turbine, white sparks glittering and falling into nothing against his firesuit, lighting up his mask.

The lines were patched, except the main artery, that snaked over and fed the engine core, and down to feed the FTL. If that went, forget the imminent third degree burns, and shrapnel. Mangan had to bypass all the fail-safes that shut the stardrive down when censors pick up a weak spot in the main line. It blows, we jump into the beyond, coordinates unknown.

Caffrey stood, massive arms folded across his chest. He did an eight-year turn in the colonial fleet as a deckhand, and discharged a 2nd-class petty officer. He looked every bit the military man. It's like he told us, what, 75 jumps ago? We're all in combat now.

Jeffers again over the loudspeaker: "Cylons, incoming. Repeat. Cylons, incoming."

The foreman's voice boomed. "Talk to me, Toby!"

Our welder snaked his white-hot arc down the iron patch collar's seam. At the end, he cut his torch off, flipped up his mask.

"Ready, Caff."

Caffery was already on the phone giving the word to Up Top.

"Go, go, go!"

Moore, her voice cracking, came over the PA. "Jump, on my mark. Mark."

A split second of vertigo later, we were gone, and back again.

33 minutes. Mark.

No hugs, no high-fives, no cries of joy were heard. We just got back in our circle by the main turbine, again. I, Mangan, and the other guys surrounded Caff who was at the center.

Marty was the youngest. At 19, he was fresh out of tech school, two months before our last run from Libron, when the bombs dropped. He hid it as well as he could, but the red in his eyes, showed he'd been crying on and off since we took that jump beyond the Red Line. Nick and Ed were around my age. Nick stood rocking on his heels, meaty thumbs hooked into his belt loops, a black rag, soaked with perspiration was tied around his forehead. Ed leaned against a rag barrel, dragging on a cigarette. He reached in his right breast pocket, at Toby's request, and gave him one.

Exhaustion hadn't hit us, yet, at least in our minds. Maybe they could afford to be tired on the passenger liners, or on Colonial One, waiting for the clock to tick down. We, and every grease monkey, in every engine room and on every deck in the fleet didn't have time to get down, let our bodies catch up and realize five days had gone by.

Ever since the worlds ended, everything was about keeping the Lady running. From the moment we followed the Galactica out of the cloud, and made the human race's last run, we didn't have time to slow down, to think, to mourn. A part of me hoped they would keep coming, for all time, and I would never have to wrap my brain around the reality that everything I had ever known was obliterated in nuclear fire.

Caffery sighed.

"You know what to do. We been doing it. Watch your assigned sensors, keep your tools near and patch anything on the cooler you see. Krenzik, you stay up top, take the cart and tell Briars to get his fat ass on the lift and bring you as many patch collars as you can carry. Toby's out. Mangan, you holler up here if the FTL goes down again…"

The 237th was our last. By then, the cooler was reinforced, patched, welded, and patched again. We even had some time to spare, jumping out with twenty minutes left. I was on the three wheeler again, bed weighed down with the few collars Toby didn't need. Under normal circumstances, I loved tooling around on the maintence buggy. It reminded me of taking my dirt bike out in the mud, when I was a kid, back on Libron. Every time I'd come back, caked in dirt from head to toe. Dad would just shake his head, hiding a smile from my mom, who would march right out, and spray me down with the garden hose before even letting me in the garage.

I pushed the thought down deep. We still weren't safe yet. It was only two minutes past the clock.

Briars, the shipping clerk, stood with hands in pockets staring out at the other ships spread out against the stars, on the observation deck. I hopped off the buggy, and joined him, fishing a smoke out of my shirt pocket and lighting it.

"Tsup, Mike," I asked him.

"Something's happening," he murmured, his round face pinched, lips pursed.

"What is it?"

He pointed out, toward the largest spec in the distance, the Galactica.

"See that? She's turning sideways. See that other ship? That's the Olympic Carrier. Overheard the Captain when Jeffers called down. They were missing 'til a minute ago and--"

The darkness blossomed in orange fire, and I shielded my eyes. When I opened them again, the Olympic carrier was no more.

Jeffers' voice echoed in the vast loading bay.

33 minutes. Mark.

I had never seen a Cylon basestar before. If chaos had a shape, I knew it then. Raiders poured forth, as if they were one giant, ravenous animal. I stopped trying to count them. Brier kept trying, under his breath.

"Gods, hundreds of 'em, man," he whispered, as they kept pressing forward, in their singleminded purpose, as Galactica's big guns tore them down. For every ten or so reduced to an orange puff, twice that many seemed to advance. Other ships flashed into hyperspace, twinkling out around us, and at the 16 minute mark, we did too.

Finally, we had to face "what next?"

It's always something.


End file.
